


try once more (you and i know)

by strangesmallbard



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: Discussions About Magic, Eventual Romance, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 07:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13829082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangesmallbard/pseuds/strangesmallbard
Summary: Julie laughs, still kindly, and Hecate knows cruel laughter more than most. “Then you are permitted to call me Julie. We’ve known each other three years now.”“I’m aware of…” Hecate inaudibly clears her throat and tries to come up with a real reason why she both avoids the Infirmary and ends up there every other day. In lieu of one, she raises her chin again. “...the passing of time.”**Hecate Hardbroom, her penchant for ruminating, and a new friend.





	try once more (you and i know)

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this while i procrastinate on everything else (mountain troll hopefully should be updated this week! i've also got some sq in the works!), and i thought it was going to be a lot longer but i think it's...complete? writing is so nebulous. anyway, i hope you enjoy the uh, copious amounts of headcanons. i've got some emotions about julie hubble.
> 
> thanks so so much to rayna, brit, and onella for all their help! 
> 
> also: tw/cw some alcohol consumption. no one drinks very much, but it does exist in this one.
> 
> and the title is from "chiquitita" by abba!

Her mistake was staying the first time, months ago. Hecate knew it then and knows it now like the back of her broomstick. Like the amount of _epiphyllum oxypetalum_ in a sleeping draught.

Of course, the _mistake_ was letting _Julie Hubble_ take over the long vacant school nurse position. Hecate knows her medicinal herbology and can much more than adequately care for any school-time ailments and disasters, and certainly doesn’t need the more _rudimentary_ forms of medicine the Ordinary World has to offer. Nor does she need an entire new Hubble to cause disasters. (Even if Mildred Hubble has caused...fewer disasters in her senior schooling years, and may even have the marks for a decent university if she pulls her potions grade up during her last few terms.) (Even if Hecate has _some_ faith that she will.)

Then came the dragon flu disaster and Mildred had the bright idea of bringing in her mother, _Nurse Practitioner Julie Hubble_ to “triage,” the affected students and,

Now.

 

* * *

 

 

  
"You look like you're wallowing," Julie says, smoothing down one of the cots in the infirmary. "And I know you're not, so you're here for one of those Wide Awake potions, and I'm going to say no. You've had three this week, and that's two more than the weekly recommendation. There.” She puts her hands on her hips. “I saved us a whole conversation."  
  
Hecate blinks, and curls one hand over the other. "’What I do with my potions and my time is certainly none of your business, Miss Hubble.”  
  
Julie raises a finger. "There have been five less incidents this year than in all previous years precisely because I regulate them. I made a spreadsheet, if you want a copy. Now, I'm making tea before I’m scheduled to transfer home. Want a cup?"

Hecate twists her lips. “I _made_ those potions myself. What’s stopping me from going into the cabinet where I stored them _myself_ , and simply...taking it.”

Julie tilts her head. “Common sense, I hope.”

“I’ve made this potion every week for decades,” Hecate says, raising her chin and glaring. “I resent the implication that I don’t properly consider its effects.”

Julie sighs and sits down on the newly made bed, thoroughly messing it up once more. She tucks hair behind her ears, and obtrusively sticks her legs out, the same way she keeps appearing in Hecate’s well-built daily routine. “Well, go on then. Cabinet’s that way.”

Hecate can visualize herself walking toward the cabinet and transferring away before _Julie Hubble_ can get another word in edgewise, but finds that she doesn’t move an inch. The night stretches out far ahead of her and suddenly her plan to grade Year Four essays sounds not only dreadful, but actually impossible. Especially in the mortifying face of the…well, _why_ she’s not going to sleep tonight in the first place. Pippa’s words replaying in her mind, over and over. Ridiculous. Something she should have seen coming a mile, ten, a hundred miles away.

Ridiculous.

She sniffs, and folds her hands together. “Aren’t you going to argue that I should _rest_ on a Friday night as if I’m one of the students, absolutely unable to take care of my own self?”

Julie stares at her like she’s just revealed the location of the Fountain of Youth, which has been missing since the Great Wizard Aaron lost a duel with a cartographer. “I was going to ask you to wave that magic hand of yours and get us the tea to save time, but it looks like I was wrong.”

Hecate pulls her shoulders back. “What are you talking about?”

Julie smiles. “You are wallowing, HB Hardbroom.”

Hecate wants to argue, wants to throw up her hands and throw her most frightening glare (eyebrows up, eyes wide, snarl in place, she has practiced it enough in front of a mirror), but Julie Hubble’s eyes are kind and knowing and Hecate is truly exhausted by this longform heartache. She’s seen little evidence that being in...that falling in, that having _affections_ , is supposed to be anything short of physically painful.

Pippa is married, _has_ been for–well. Years. It’s been years. And Julie Hubble only looks kind, like if Hecate were to fall apart at her feet (code forbid) she would only pick her up and dust her off and not judge her ridiculous amount of _feelings_ at all (code absolutely forbid!). “You _are_ permitted to call me Hecate. As the staff does.”

Julie laughs, still kindly, and Hecate knows cruel laughter more than most. “Then you are _permitted_ to call me Julie. We’ve known each other three years now.”

“I’m aware of…” Hecate inaudibly clears her throat and tries to come up with a real reason why she both avoids the Infirmary and ends up there every other day. In lieu of one, she raises her chin again. “...the passing of time.”

Julie flourishes her hand at the side table. “You know, even work colleagues can share woes over tea-time.”

Hecate stares, her better and rational and worse selves arguing about something just beyond her reach, which is the most frustrating factor of _emotions_ , not...understanding them completely, even when they’re in your own mind. She could just fix her fallen collar, grab her wide awake potion, and leave Nurse Hubble to her duties, but tea is pleasant and she–

Doesn’t want. To bother Ada now, when she’s been so stressed. Or, to–

Julie Hubble tilts her head and continues to stare back with her kind eyes, a couple of curls falling from her work bun.

(Or to be alo–)

Hecate fixes her fallen collar, and waves her hand. The teapot from her own rooms transfers in, followed by two tea cups. With another flick of her fingers, the pot is filled with water and begins, slowly, to boil.

Julie grins into the crinkles by her eyes. “Could I trouble you for some milk?"

Hecate glares. “Milk? _In tea?”_

 

* * *

 

So, perhaps tea isn’t how it starts.

Perhaps it starts when Julie Hubble has the sheer audacity to challenge her interpretation of the Witch’s Code, a document that had been sealed in ink and bond and trust since before any Hardbrooms or Hubbles walked this earth, a document she had only read three months prior, and a document that Hecate had memorized far before her own schooling began.

Perhaps it starts because Julie’s interpretation of the Code had...merit, signs of thought, certainly, and perhaps it starts because her devotion to her daughter’s studies is remarkable for a woman who will never know magic herself. Hecate has seen many a jealous Witch lose all sense of mind when confronted with her own limitations, for there will always be Witches that have more command over one area of spells or chanting or incantations, but Julie Hubble is Ordinary as the people she passes by on her broomstick every time she leaves Cacke’s. And she doesn’t care. It’s simply...baffling.

Hecate remembers her student days, remembers bringing home a less than perfect mark and the way her father would glare, how her grandmother would deny her dinner, because she must be a better Witch. She must be the best Witch she can be, because the Craft is a responsibility and a duty she will not shirk for anything or anyone.

Perhaps–

 

* * *

 

“Millie made me the sweetest birthday card, you know,” Julie says, leaned back in Hecate’s armchair, her grandmother’s armchair she brought over from the inherited cottage twenty years ago. “A dog...well, a painting of a dog, that she drew, came alive and ran around our flat before it exploded into confetti and finally became a very cute stuffed dog with a card that read, _Since we still can’t get a real one! Happy Birthday!”_ She laughs. “Millie was a bit surprised that it actually turned _into_ the dog, but I would have been impressed if it turned into a cardboard box.”

Hecate feels her lips pull up, and twists them back into neutrality. “Transmogrification is one of the more complex modules.”

Julie raises her cup. “She also happened to mention that she got some excellent advice on the...oh, what was it called…” she snaps, “Re-animation!”

Hecate’s hands still around her own cup, focusing on the warmth in her tea instead of the warmth in her chest. “I’m sure those friends of hers had a marvelous time working on that project instead of their homework.”

Julie tilts her head. “Right, of course.”

“Yes,” Hecate says carefully, “...Of course.”

Julie rolls her eyes and smiles. She puts her cup down. “Well, _thank_ you for your help, Miss Hardbroom. You made her day too, you know.”

Hecate nods and glances down at her tea cup. She waves her hand until steam rises again. “I...am glad to know it was a pleasant day.” She looks up, and Julie is still looking at her. “I warned Mildred that transmogrified objects often lose their form no matter what, but she wanted to attempt the spell. _Responsibly._ She’s come a long way.”

Julie beams. “She has, hasn’t she! Much better marks and not as many frenzied phone calls from Ada about Millie er, turning into a toad? Millie turning someone _into_ a toad. She felt terrible about that.”

Hecate’s lips twist up. “Toads have been an unfortunate theme of her education thus far.”

Julie’s brows pull in. “But not as much, right?”

Hecate tries not to wince. “I think she certainly has a future as a fully-fledged...frog-less Witch. Provided she keeps up her revising, of course.”

Julie tries to smile, but she turns to the fire and her face goes dour. She leans against a hand propped up on the arm chair. “I was worried when magic started to stress her out, you know. School isn't supposed to make you happy all the time and should carry some healthy stresses. Challenges, but…” She runs a hand over the back of her neck and looks back at Hecate with an utterly unidentifiable expression. Small pricks run across Hecate’s skin, and she fights the urge to tug at her own sleeves.

“But?” she says, all too soft. She clears her throat again to bring back a comfortable grit.

Julie sighs. “It took me a long time to realize that magic...isn't just _bippity-boppity-boo.”_

“Well, of course it isn't,” Hecate says, straightening her shoulders. “That's pure gibberish.”

Julie rolls her eyes. “One of these weekends, Hardbroom. I'm bringing over a laptop and giving you a _thorough_ education in Ordinary Media.”

 _Hecate_ , she wants to say. Doesn’t want to say. “My weekends are precious, Miss Hubble.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure.” Julie smiles again. Differently, a little more sad at the edges. “But...it's her world, isn't it? Now, I mean. She has to _learn_ magic, because she needs to. Magic can't always be,” she shrugs, “Magical?”

Hecate frowns. “Magic is _always_ magical.”

Julie looks at her tea cup. “It’s not always fun, though. In the Ordinary World, magic means that anything is possible. It’s hopeful, it’s…” she laughs. “It’s fun, usually. It turns out that real magic has _maths_ and a lot more danger.”

Hecate stares. There’s certainly a lot of awe in the Craft, but _fun_ is an entirely different matter. It’s been an error of many a Witch to consider magic fun, a game, and– There is Mildred’s birthday gift to consider. Transmogrification all to make her mother happy on her birthday.

It’s.

 _Baffling._ Pippa used to give her such gifts on her birthday, and she remembers how different those gifts felt from her assignments. How they should feel frivolous, and yet don’t. How Julie Hubble thinks magic is fun, but doesn’t _mean_ frivolous. She means it’s–

“The maths are meant to mitigate the danger,” she quips, taking a sip of her tea. “It took a lot of maths to make your birthday card for instance.”

Julie’s smile turns happier. “Oh, the dangers of confetti. It was wonderful.” She frowns. “Don’t you find magic wonderful, HB? I mean, the things you can simply _do_.”

Hecate swallows. After all this time, Julie Hubble finds her _wonderful._ Well, her magic. Magic itself. She doesn’t think about how her cheeks feel warm, how the room is suddenly a little too warm. Wonder in her own magic has never helped anyone, not once. “Magic is inherently a tool, one that is catastrophic in the wrong hands. And I don’t mean Mildred,” she says. “Not at all.”

Julie smiles, suddenly so very sad around the eyes. “I know you don’t mean her.”

Hecate nods, sharply. “So, you see–”

“Is the rest of the Witching World so serious as you, HB?”

She swallows. She thinks of the painting. She thinks of the Mist. She thinks of so many, many things that go wrong without question or concern, no matter how many precations they all take. “There are sacrifices that have to be made so the Witching World _isn’t_ so serious.”

“Oh,” Julie says, still sad around the eyes. Sad for–

“More tea?” she says, hand poised over the kettle.

Julie lifts her head, and nods. “Sure,” she murmurs. Hecate snaps and the kettle begins to boil again.

Julie sighs and runs a tired hand through her hair. “When Millie came home with all these stories about evil twin sisters and almost getting trapped in a different year…. you probably don't want to know how many times I thought about pulling her from the school.”

Hecate twists her lips up into what she hopes is a, well, something like a comforting smile. “You probably don’t want to know how often I considered expelling her.”

Julie stares at her again and laughs, sharply. “Oh, I think I know.” She sighs. “You were a real menace, you know that?”

Hecate tries not to cough on her tea. “A _menace?”_

Julie hands her a napkin. She glares at the napkin, and takes it. “Back when you were trying to get my daughter _expelled_ at every possible turn.”

Though the words aren’t said with her old anger, Hecate’s stomach twists in uncomfortable guilt. She wasn’t wrong, she still isn’t entirely wrong, but there is...indeed a but. “I hope you know that I _wasn’t_...I did not want to expel her on principle. For a Witch to enter formal schooling without any basic knowledge of the Code. It was simply...unprecedented.”

Julie raises her brows. “That’s what I meant, you know. Magic isn’t always happy. You forget, I was there for that dragon flu.”

Hecate sighs, wryly. “I couldn’t possibly forget, Miss Hubble.”

Julie puts down her cup. “I really can’t believe I’m saying this, but...thank you for trusting Millie. And allowing her to study at her own pace. Your opinion means so much to her, HB. I thought I was going to have to explain that some teachers are simply jerks and their _wrong_ opinions won’t matter in the end.”

The guilt twists again, but warmth subsides it bit by bit. “I believe you called me an arsehole last Monday.”

Julie pulls her legs up to tuck underneath her. Hecate almost tells her to keep her shoes off the cushions, but realizes that she’s not wearing any. “You _are_ an arsehole, just not...a jerk. Not anymore.”

Hecate sighs again. “Well, I meant what I said."

Julie tilts her head. "Oh?"

"Mildred now understands the responsibility of the Craft better than many Witches. And…”

_“And?”_

“I once thought the Craft... _magic_ itself was in a sharp decline,” Hecate says, and smiles. The kind where her face doesn’t feel unnaturally pulled and stretched.  “I no longer think that is true. I see more and more students each year now, willing to learn.” She folds one hand over the other, and looks towards the fireplace. “And...I was...a bit of a jerk.”

Julie is startled into a laugh. “Uh-huh. Oh, if only I was recording.”

Hecate smirks. “If only,” she says, and takes a sip of tea.

 

* * *

 

Well, perhaps there’s a reason she keeps visiting the infirmary. Keeps inviting Julie Hubble over for tea. Or agreeing to tea with Julie Hubble, who keeps ending up with her legs tucked up on the couch in her living room.

Perhaps.

 

* * *

 

The bar.

Hecate has been to one bar ever in her life. For Pippa’s eighteenth. It was unpleasant then, and it’s unpleasant now, if less colorful. Alcohol is pungent, and so is sweat, and so is desperation, and there’s all of that in a bar and in very, very close quarters. She’s also feeling woefully underdressed, but has been assured that a sweater and slacks is _well, a bit much for a bar, but at least you won’t get the weirdos asking you to cackle for them._

When it’s not a good wine, alcohol is also disgusting.

Hecate stubbornly sucks on the straw and grimaces. “What is _long_ or _beachish_ about this? It tastes like fruit flavored ragweed.”

Julie takes a sip of her drink. “That means it’s working,” she says with a wink.

Hecate’s neck flushes. She takes another sip. “I am doubting that,” she says, and eyes the bartender with anger and– oh, her head is swimming. Another fact about alcohol. She pushes the drink away. “What else are you even meant to do in…a place like this?”

Julie turns around in her seat, one arm leaned back against the counter. Her shirt doesn’t have sleeves, and a lot of freckles dot her arm. “You…” she gestures with her drink. “Talk to people, meet-up with friends. Tell silly stories about work, if it’s work friends. Dance, if you’re keen.”

Hecate looks up from her arm to the rest of everyone, strangers laughing and dancing and drinking all around them. Pippa loved that night, that bar. She threw an arm around Hecate and pulled her inwards, towards the edges of the dance floor where she could still duck out. Guided Hecate’s hands around her waist and made her head swim with something that isn’t alcohol–

 _That_ isn’t a good idea. She takes another sip.  “I didn’t have those,” Hecate says without meaning to. She flushes again, and starts to vanish the drink away before she _remembers_ she’s in a _bar_ and settles for pushing it away with outstretched fingers.

Julie looks at her with those annoyingly kind eyes. “Friends?”

Hecate folds her fingers together. “I was very busy when I was a student and none of the Cackle’s staff is _keen_ on, what did you call it?”

Julie takes another sip, still looking at her. “Bar hopping?” she offers.

Hecate nods and doesn’t think about Pippa or her awful friends from school, or the way her sweater is making her all too sweaty. Instead, she reaches for her drink and takes a gulp. It burns and she has to fight to keep from spitting it back.

A hand settles on her back, steady, steady. “If you’re worried about doing bars wrong, we _are_ work friends and we _are_ talking, so.” She moves her hand in one circle before letting it drop, and the bar is suddenly far colder than Hecate remembers. “Then again, if anyone heard our work conversations, they’d think us batty.”

She lifts up her head and vanishes the glass away before she can think about who’s watching. “The Ordinary World doesn’t have overgrown plants that try to eat half the schoolbody and three quarters of the staff? Perish the thought, Nurse Hubble.”

Julie laughs, and swivels again, facing Hecate. Her eyes twinkle. “We’ve got a musical about it, actually.” She taps Hecate’s forearm. “And it’s _Julie.”_

“Julie,” Hecate tests, and Julie Hubble beams. “Perish the thought,” she mutters and reaches for her glass. Which she’s vanished away.

“Julie Hubble! Thought that was you.”

Hecate freezes, and glances up to find a red-haired woman in a long green dress looming over them with a champagne flute. Julie moves her hand away from Hecate’s wrist. She smiles, decidedly more strained than normal. “Gina, hello.”

This _Gina_ pats her arm. “Mike and Willa said it _can’t_ be you, so I just had to prove them wrong. Look at you! Out and about. No more late nights at the hospital?” Herr eyes flash at Hecate, still frozen, suddenly nauseas by the cacophony of noise behind them. “Who's _this_ , then?”

Julie looks at her, eyes wide. She clears her throat, and puts her glass down. “This is my coworker, He– er, Cate Hardbroom.”

Gina smiles, thin and polite. “Pleasure.”

Hecate stares, fist curling magic by her side. “Actually, it’s _Hec–_ ”

Julie puts a gentle hand on her forearm, and Hecate can only stare, pins of heat prickling her cheeks, nausea still roiling, everyone still so _loud._ Julie smiles at _Gina,_ thumb running a circle over Hecate’s arm, not looking at her. “Tell Mike and Willa that I'm alive and well, would you?”

 _Gina_ eyes Hecate, who might be glaring. She's not quite sure. It's so _loud_ and Hecate can’t transfer away, can’t comprehend how far away she is from her office at Cackle’s, stirring potions and drawing up exams, Ada’s office, sipping cocoa. “C’mon Jules, tell them yourself! What's it been, fifteen years?” She looks back at Hecate ( _Cate)_ and curls her lips up into a sneer, always the sneering. “Bring your coworker _friend_ too, if you like.”

Julie looks between them for a moment, head tilted in consideration. All at once, Hecate knows she has to go home. She can’t– she can’t do _this_ , anymore. She’s far too old, and far too–

(Pippa’s sad smile when Hecate left the dance floor, her friends sneering and pulling Pippa further in, farther away.)

(Hecate in her bedroom, alone because she _wants_ to be–)

She firmly extricates her arm, and stands up from the stool. She ignores how her legs start to melt into the floor. “You go on, Miss Hubble. I’m certain it will be pleasant to catch up with,” her lips twist, “some old friends.”

“H– Cate? _”_ Julie raises a startled brow. “You alright?”

Gina taps the base of her champagne flute and furrows her brow. “It’ll be a bit of a squeeze, but I’m sure we’ll all be able to fit.”

Julie shakes her head, smile tight and unkind. “Actually, Cate and I are–”

“It’s quite _fine._ ” She fixes her collar. “It’s irresponsible for me to be out this late when I have so much work to do.”

Gina laughs, all mean and all teeth. Ordinary or Magical, Hecate knows and it bites prickles down her neck. “Oh, you found a fun one.”

Julie rolls her eyes and there’s a shout from across the room. She puts down her glass, and practically jumps of the stool. “Hey, that’s _enough._ Hecate, you don’t have to lea–”

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she says, and walks away before she can look back, walks through the loud, dancing crowd, sweater clinging to her sides and the music grating in her ears, keeping her fists tightly closed so she doesn’t transfer in front of these _Ordinary–_

Hecate’s outside. The music muffles, and cool air floods her mind with calm.

 

* * *

 

As she’s about to transfer, the door swings open.

“Oi, _Miss Hardbroom!”_

So Julie has followed her. She scowls, and turns a corner around the building. Best not to transfer so out in the open. She raises her arm and–

“Hey! It’s rude to transfer while I’m talking to you.” She puts her hands on her hips. “What the hell was that about?”

Out here in the silence, amongst the neat square apartments and telephone poles and cars parked along the rode, Hecate feels sheer embarrassment roiling in her gut instead of the alcohol. Tonight was a bad, bad idea, and Julie looks like the last year never happened at all. Like they’re sitting across from each other at Parent’s Night. “I’m _not_ one for bar-hopping,” she says, chin raised. “I meant it, however.  Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Julie presses fingertips to her temple. “I was enjoying my evening.” She looks around the alley, an old metal trash can turned on its side. “ _Now_ I’m not!”

Hecate curls her arm back at the elbow, curls her hand into a very weak fist. She feels her face drop into something tired and that just won’t do. “It will be...better if you go back inside. Go be with your friends.”

She crosses her arms. “Or maybe you should stop _assuming_ that I want to drink terrible champagne with an ex and somebody I’ve punched before.”

Hecate blinks, hand dropping. “I beg your pardon?”

Julie doesn’t elaborate. She just looks at her again, plainly, and smoothes a piece of hair behind her ear. “Why?” she says.

Hecate swallows, and reaches for her necklace. She knows she’s spent a lifetime slipping towards the shadows where she can shape the night however she wishes, and tonight she...when Julie asked if she wanted to go _out_ , there was no reason to say yes. There was also no reason to say no. There was only Julie telling her to keep the necklace on, after she decided to wear her one and only Ordinary sweater, a gift from Ada decades ago. There was only how much Hecate didn’t want to say goodnight just yet.

There was only–

“I’m afraid I’m not very good company,” she says, the words pulled from a chasm, gravelled with however many years smoothed over. She lets her lips twist up.

Julie stares. Her arms drop from her hips and her eyes widen in terrible, terrible thought. Hecate feels the nausea all over again. “You are,” she says, scratchy. “When you want to be.” She smiles, and it smoothes all the lines in her face. “Do you think I let just anyone into my infirmary?

Hecate twists the bauble on her necklace. “Ill students and staff, I would hope.” she clears her throat. “Since that is why Ada hired you.”

Julie takes a few steps forward. “I’m not going back inside, HB.”

“Hecate,” she says before she can stop herself. “I...I will transfer you home, then.”

“Do you want go home?”

Hecate sighs. “Well, I ruined the evening for _going out._ That is the next conclusion. _”_

“You _drama queen,_ " she raises her brows. “It takes a lot more to ruin an evening.”

Hecate doesn't know the next part. She’s always been gone first, before.

Julie she rubs at her arm and oh, she must be freezing _._ The coolness of the night has long since given way to freezing. “If you’ll trust me for a moment, I’ve got an idea of where we could go next.” She looks back at Hecate. “It is alright if you do need to go home. I understand.”

Hecate turns her necklace over and over and over. Trust is a funny, strange thing. She imagines Ada right now, reading at her desk, smiling always so kindly at Hecate, even when she least deserves it. “I...don’t,” she says. “I don’t think _I_ understand.”

Julie takes a deep breath and puts both hands on her hips, heedless of the cold. “You’re my friend, Hecate Hardbroom, and I would like to spend more time with you.”

Hecate tries not to gape. “I...that...” she says, face burning. She feels her shoulders relaxing. She feels herself smiling, and can’t bring herself to stop. “Alright,” she says.

Julie beams, like she did when Hecate called her _Julie_ for the first time. She rubs her arms again, and gives a small hop. _“Alright,_ then. We’re going to have to take the bus, but the line to the park shouldn’t be too busy right now.”

“The park?”

 

* * *

 

(And oh, Hecate should know what will happen when she associates the stars and their boundless, sturdy splendor with–)

 

* * *

 

“ _Cate?_  And what is wrong with _Hecate,_ exactly?”

Julie sticks her hands in the borrowed pockets of Hecate’s coat. “Oh, _that_. I was just trying to prevent her from looking you up later. She’s rather nosy.”

Hecate frowns. “Look...me...up? I don’t even have,” she waves her hand. “I-Email.”

Julie hovers a hand over Hecate’s arm. “Hey, look over there,” she says, and nods over to the clear lake, the shadowy trees beyond. “I haven’t been here in years, but I always…” she suddenly snorts, hand leaning on Hecate’s shoulder for a moment before she steps towards the water’s edge. “Oh never mind, you’re going to make fun.”

Hecate raises a brow. “Oh, _really.”_

Julie looks forward, and the low lantern light catches the ends of her hair. “Well, back in the day, way before Millie was born, I used to come here after a good night out. Or a bad one.”

Hecate steps forward, and sees no reflection in the lake. It’s boundless, nothingness, like a sleeping draught. “Did those bad ones involve...punching, did you say?”

Julie turns her head. “A bit curious about my whole _sordid_ past?”

Hecate’s neck burns again, and she fixes her collar. “I’m sure it wasn’t too sordid,” she mutters, and tries to find her reflection again.

Julie laughs. “It most certainly was. And it was good, back when it _was_ ...good. Anyway, I would come here and sit at that bench over there,” she points with a hand still in Hecate’s coat pocket to a wooden bench, canopied by the lantern. “I liked how _spooky_ it was, especially when the fog came out. I felt well. _Witchy,”_ she says, looking at Hecate with an expression oddly close to sheepish. “For a lack of a better word.”

Hecate feels a laugh bubble up, unwarranted, unwanted, and she covers it by clearing her throat, letting her lips curl up. “So that’s why you brought me here, then. So I could commiserate with the seaweed and pondscum.”

“Better than bar-hopping?” she says softly and oh, that’s why. Oh, that’s why they’re here. Hecate looks out into the cold, still night, and the heat on her neck no longer burns.

She still doesn’t _understand._ “Yes, much...better,” she says. She draws her brows in, and doesn’t look at her, can’t look at her. She considers the stars. They’re gauzy, almost unidentifiable, but they’re still hers to know. There’s _Orion’s Belt._ There’s _Aries._

“Hecate?”

“Hmm?”

“You can ignore this question.”

“That’s promising.”

There’s _Cygnus,_ she thinks. There’s _Sirius._

“The next time we go out, can you tell me when you’re feeling uncomfortable?”

Hecate startles and turns her head back. “The next time?”

Julie shrugs, and shifts on her feet. “If you want there to be one.”

Hecate turns back to the lake, and thinks about how it’s quiet. How her mind is quiet. How it’s never, ever quiet. How Julie wants there to be a next time.  “I want….” she swallows the unpracticed word until it knots in her stomach. “I used to walk by a lake too,” she says, allowing herself to smile. A quick and sure and safe thing. “In university. I studied most of the time, of course.”

 _“Of_ course.”

“But, well…”

Julie’s smile is the same as it always is. The wind curls hair by her neck, and Hecate is caught by all the freckles dotting her face. Wonders if she’s always had so many. “Tell me about it?”

Hecate tells her.


End file.
